"She Shall Have Music"

by AUSTIN STRONG

1

I HEARD with an inward ping of pleasure the whistle of the paddle-wheel steamer warning us that she was swinging her enormous bustle around Brant Point.

The clock in the Unitarian Church began striking the hour.

“The boat’s late,”I said.

My companion said nothing, but sat beside me upright as an exclamation point, remote as a portrait.

Though we saw him here every morning in his accustomed chair in the Captains’ Room, we knew little about him save that he had traveled widely and that he had a native eloquence if he could be induced to talk. Now he had “rounded Brant Point” for good, to end his days in peace on Nantucket Island where he was born.

I smiled as I listened to the deep-toned bell booming circles of sound over the huddled roofs of the gray town. This bronze beauty is not only a Portuguese but a papist, blessed by no less a dignitary than the patriarch of Lisbon. It was bought in that city at the beginning of the last century by a public-spirited sea captain and set up in the gold-capped tower of the South Church, where for over a hundred years this good Catholic has called the freethinking and tolerant Protestants to their non-conforming meetings.

“Yes, sir, she’s half an hour late,” I said again, but Mr. Bolling had inherited from his Quaker forebears the gift of silence. His thin face was aquiline and his aristocratic nose discouraged familiarity. His hands rested neatly folded upon his gold-headed Malacca cane through which ran a tasseled cord; his gold-rimmed eyeglasses hung from a black silk ribbon; his linen was immaculate, always freshly laundered, creaking with starch.

Hoping to lure him into conversation I said facetiously: “There’s a star-face for you, Mr. Bolling!”

I pointed my pipe at a flaming thing in a skirt cut high above her knees, who teetered past our windows on high heels, her hair bobbed boy-fashion, a cigarette between her lips.

Mr. Bolling began banging on the floor with his cane. He turned and held me with a blazing eye, then spoke in a slow, cultivated voice, each word delivered with precision as if he enjoyed the taste of every syllable.

“What’s the fun of being a woman if one can’t be feminine. These be-bottomed strutters aren’t women — they’re newts!”

I sat up with interest.

“Tell me, Mr. Bolling, did you ever see a really beautiful woman?”

By a lucky chance I struck a gusher. He gave his panama a tilt, leaned far back, placed a neatly shod foot on the railing, and became someone entirely different: someone warm, expansive, eloquent. He came out from his cell of silence like an escaping Trappist as he stared through the windows at the sunlit square.

2

“It happened right here on Main Street, up there in front of Ashley’s Store, ‘Parker’s Corner’ in my day. You won’t believe this when I tell you that right now my heart skips a beat as I recall when I first saw her rounding the head of the square like a brandnew frigate with all sails drawing, flags and pennants flying! My, my, it was a picture! You just couldn’t keep your mind where it ought to be when she went by. I don’t know how to put it, but even in broad daylight her skin seemed luminous, as if she carried a lamp within her. She came from some enchanted land to dwell among us sober folk who lived in Nantucket under the drab Quaker discipline.

“Though I was a boy of twelve and she a grown woman, I fell in love with her, and don’t you believe a boy can’t fall in love at twelve. It was very real with me — so real in fact that I would race ahead of her to wait on the corners just to watch her go by, refreshing the whole street with her beauty. There was something magical about her, for when you caught a look from her eyes something inside of you melted away. Never was there a kinder glance. It came to you slowly from under long eyelashes, just for you, for your very own, finding its way to your heart’s core, and there it would lie for the rest of the day curled up and warm like some secret good news. I was not alone in my adoration, for the whole town loved her — men, women, children, dogs, off-Islanders, and all hands round!

“Her hair was reddish gold that flashed back the sunlight like a ship’s binnacle. I tell you it was so golden you could lose a twenty-dollar gold piece in it and have a hard time finding it. And there was nothing sexless about her like these slab-sided pullets you see on Main Street. No, sir, there was no mistaking that she was a woman. She had a small waist, little feet, and a shapely bosom, round and firm, from which rose a lovely neck. She wore earrings, sir, the like of which I’ve never seen before nor since: tiny sprays of wheat exquisitely fashioned out of pure gold to curve up and around the lobes of her ears. My, my, they were just joy and rapture to behold, and did the things to you they were designed to do. Now you won’t believe this, but they were the first earrings I ever saw on a woman, for only the sailors wore them in our Quaker town where most of the women were forced to imprison their beauty within muslin caps or those hideous gray poke bonnets.

“She lived opposite us with a sick father, a retired widower, who had left Nantucket in his youth and established a business in Montevideo where he spent most of his life. After his wife’s death he returned with his daughter to end his days like most of us on this precious ‘elbow of sand.’ Our houses were opposite each other on the same street near the edge of the town where the moors begin. I would get up early on Sunday mornings just to watch her come out of the house to go to church. Occasionally a priest would come from the mainland by the packet to celebrate Mass for the few Catholics who lived here in those days. It was a sight to see her come out of her front door carrying a thick brass-bound prayerbook and a rosary of gold beads twisted around her wrist. She wore black lace mittens and a soft mantilla over her hair. I would listen for the crisp rustle of her ruffled black silk dress which stood stiffly around her like a bell.

“We heard that her mother was Spanish and a gold-head like her daughter. I can testify that a fair-haired Castilian makes for a loveliness indescribable. I only saw it once again, and that was in Paris when I watched the Empress Eugénie driving by in the Bois de Boulogne.

“We never saw her father, for his illness kept him a prisoner in the house, but we knew that he was difficult and that she was having a sad time nursing him, though you would never guess from seeing her that there was a thing on her mind but laughter from the joy of living.

“Yes, sir, it’s a glorious thing to be a beautiful woman, but you’ve got to know how to be one and she did, full and bye, you know what I mean — she carried it! Though she was naturally lovely she had something extra, an inward grace I suppose you’d call it. Well, whatever it was, it captured and enraptured the Islanders, bringing color and brightness into their lonely lives. And let me tell you it was lonely around here in those days. Imagine three-quarters of the menfolk scattered all over the seven oceans for years at a time. It was hard on the women left behind and she knew it. But she wasn’t soft, for that wouldn’t have gone down with our shrewd people. She had a straight back, tough as hickory, which her Nantucket forebears had given her, and a whiplash humor which acted like a strong tonic on the lonely and the anxious. That’s why no woman was ever known to be jealous of her.

“ Yes, it’s a funny thing, come to think of it, that though the Quakers on our island were very strict and frowned on color and beauty in any form, they somehow never frowned on her — nobody could. She was accepted by the people like one of those strange, beautiful birds the sailors brought back from the tropics, and they let her go free and unhindered. Life was dull as fog for most of us — no theaters, games, or parties, and lights out at curfew. She sensed the dreariness of our lives and unconsciously took it upon herself to cheer us; and, believe me, she did it in the most enchanting way.

“The gods, in an expansive mood, gave her a voice. Each note had a life of its own and rose from her throat full, clear, and round. I knew instinctively it was something rare, for whenever she sang she stole your thoughts away — far away to uncharted places. Naturally we children went plumb crazy about her and would waylay her after school, surrounding and pressing her close in a giggling, squirming circle, holding her prisoner until she sang herself free.

“She sang us South American love songs and gay ballads while dignified ship captains with tall hats and reefer coats stopped to lean on whalebone canes, and drivers in low-slung wagons loaded with barrels of whale oil fresh from wild sea battles eased their horses to the curb and listened; doors opened a crack on Petticoat Row; windows were pushed up in houses opposite; the street sweeper rested on his broom, while even the Quakers in their mouse-colored clothes slowed their pace as they walked discreetly by with downcast eyes.

“Then one day we were stunned by the news which exploded in our faces. She was going to marry a Nantucket Quaker! Everyone groaned and there was much talk on Main Street. Somehow it seemed all wrong and wicked that such beauty was condemned to the prison of a disciplined life.

“Our bird of paradise was trapped in a cage. As for me, it was my first meeting with jealousy. Such hatred filled me against that inoffensive, placid young Quaker that it still frightens me to recall its intensity. I cannot remember much about him, for my fury kept him out of focus, but I know that I would have gladly done away with him if I had known how. No one on the Island understood what she had in common with him, for it seemed like the union of ice and fire, but there was no doubt that she loved him with all the splendor of her heart.

3

“After her father’s death her Quaker took her to the Meeting House on First Day, where she sat in a gay flowered dress among the dove-gray women, while he joined the menfolk across the aisle. After an hour’s silence she was brought before the elders and other weighty members and instructed for her Certificate of Membership into the Society of Friends. It must have been a wrench for her to forswear her allegiance to her own church, with all her love of color and beauty, and surrender herself to the plain life where loveliness was anathema. But she did it. Yes, sir, she went over to them hook, line, and sinker.

“She stood up there among them like a Jacqueminot rose in a cabbage patch and was solemnly warned against ‘vain and frothy conversation,’ of the snares and vanities of adornment and the wearing of ‘Babylonian garments.’ She was instructed to speak the plain Scripture language of thee and thou and to learn all the Queries and Advices, and told that vocal music was forbidden as ’it articulates ideas which may convey poison to the mind and tends to seduce the thoughts of youth which makes no selection, but learns all that falls in their way.’ She was gravely warned that her singing must cease forever and through the discipline of silence she must ‘keep down the willings and the runnings.’

“Well, sir, the poor girl promised them everything and she was duly signed up and delivered to a life as dull as stale porridge. Lord, I shall never forget the night before her wedding. I couldn’t sleep for heartache, and sat like a silly coof at the open window of my attic room staring at the stars which hung close down over the Island. I remember everything about that night: the sound of the heavy surf on the South Shore, the faint gaggle of a skein of wild geese high overhead on their long, strong flight to the Carolinas, a moon that was trying to turn night into day. Have you ever noticed how the moonlight changes the gold on the South Church into a misty silver? I remember how still everything was; the whole world held its breath as if aware something ominous was going to happen.

“A dog barked over ‘Egypt’ way and was promptly silenced. I knew the night was a weather-breeder, for I could just hear, faint as conscience, the foreboding sound of the bell buoy occasionally tolling outside the Eastern jetty.

“I heard the click of a latch. Then a hooded figure slipped out of the back door of the house opposite and headed straight for the open moors. I knew it was she. In an instant I was down the stairs and out of the house, fast after her. But I found she was hard to keep up with, for she was young and strong and swift, while I was a short-legged youngster. I followed her until my breath hurt me and my feet were full of pain. Then to my dismay I lost sight of her.

“I began to walk vaguely towards the center of the moors, hoping against hope to find her. I must have gone some distance, for a blister fastened on my heel like a wasp and forced me to limp. Tired, sore, and frightened by the loneliness, I turned to go home, when I heard singing coming in faint wisps, high over the distant booming of the surf. I followed the sound for a long way until I came to a sunken bowl in the moors, and there I saw her at the bottom standing straight and still as a statue with her pale face to the moon.

“I sat down on the edge of the bowl fascinated. She had thrown off her cloak, which made a pool of black at her feet, and stood dressed in scarlet brocade covered with bright leaves of gold; a high tortoiseshell comb held a mantilla above her head, and there was fresh arbutus at her waist and in her hair. As I had never seen jewels in my life before, I fancied I saw a magic ring of light around her neck and a star at each ear.

“She sang as I never hope to hear a mortal sing again. I lay curled up in a tight ball against the cold and listened as she sang and sang through the night, while I floated in and out of sleep until finally the cold roused me and made me flap my arms to keep warm. Still she sang and still I listened, until the first hint of dawn came to warn her.

“At the end she became inspired and sang like someone possessed. It’s funny how children sense things. I knew I was looking at something I should not be seeing. It was her farewell forever to her singing and to her freedom. I’ve heard of a swan song, but I guess I’m one of the few who ever heard it from a human being. When I tried to rise to go away and leave her to herself I slipped on the edge and rolled ignominiously down the bowl to her feet. My sudden appearance struck her off her guard. She knelt, held me tight in her strong arms, gave a great dry gasp, then rose, and gripping my hand hard she led me off over the moors for home.

“To ease my limping she put her arm about me, helping me over the rough places. I forgot the pain, for it was pure bliss to feel her so close. I can still recall the good scent of her — of sandalwood, fresh linen, and young health. When we reached the edge of the town she knelt, wiped my eyes, and after straightening my clothes she kissed me tenderly, and for no reason at all we both wept. She turned and ran into her house — the most beautiful woman that ever was made.

“I never saw her again. I saw the dead thing they made of her, for I went to her wedding the next day at the Friends’ Meeting House. It was awful to sit there for over an hour trying to guess by the backs of the bonnets which one was hers. I tell you it was solemn. We all sat in stillness in a plain wooden house painted white, with the sun pouring in at the many-paned windows; the only sound was the faint twittering of birds outside and it made you realize that the Quakers don’t need cathedrals, high altars, or lofty rose windows; their silence creates something august and awe-inspiring.

“ Presently two men chosen as the groomsmen came forward and the young Quaker stood up pink and clean, and I must admit he looked very handsome as he stood there in quiet dignity, dressed in a new gray suit with a fresh linen stock at his throat. I craned my neck to look at the bride. To my dismay I did not recognize her. Her golden crown was gone, hidden behind a gray poke bonnet, her lithe young figure made clumsy by heavy clothes. They had made her just another gray counterpart of their drab and monotonous selves. I caught a fleeting glimpse under her bonnet of a waxen cheek as she rose to join hands with her young bridegroom. Then, according to the custom of the Friends, they married themselves to each other.

“He spoke in such a low voice I could not catch his words, but presently her voice rang out and I heard it for the last time; she spoke and the place was filled with the magic and warmth of her.

“’In the presence of the Lord and this Assembly,’ she said, ‘I take thee to be my husband, promising with divine assistance to be unto thee a loving and faithful wife until death shall separate us.’

“I did not wait as the two groomsmen brought the marriage certificate on the table to be signed, but slipped out and went behind the Meeting House where, like a puppy, I was sick upon the grass.”

4

Mr. Bolling removed his foot from the railing, fell silent, and showed signs of retiring within his cell.

“What happened then?” I asked, tapping the ashes from my pipe.

“Oh, she disappeared right here in our midst. The Friends lived so close among themselves they seemed to shut unseen doors on the life around them. It was nothing you could put your finger on; we’d pass them in the street, buy things in their shops, go to school to them; they were good, kind, and gentle and yet they were away from us and seemed to live behind a glass wall.

“Boylike, I soon forgot all about her. I went to Boston, married, seldom came to Nantucket. Life changed, many people left the Island, and she and her husband drifted off with many of the Friends who migrated to ’America.’ Years afterwards I met an old Quaker lady in Philadelphia who was a distinguished Greek professor in a girls’ college. Tiny, round, and pink, she was the spit and image of Benjamin Franklin. She fooled you on first sight, for you thought ‘Here’s a dear little charmer’ until you met her penetrating gaze head-on. It was something of a shock when you realized you stood completely unmasked as two quiet gray eyes examined you with interest and dry humor.

“She became quite animated, however, when she heard I came originally from the Island of Nantucket, and fairly melted when she found that I had known the Quakeress from South America. She sat for some time in silence and then told me the end of the story with a depth of feeling surprising in a Friend.

“’She came to our town in Pennsylvania,’ she said, ’with her tall young husband, and I can bear witness that she came to us like the clear-eyed daughter of Zeus, Athene herself. None of us had imagined that human beauty could reach such inspired perfection; truly “a girl beautiful as an immortal in nature and form.” They lived in a fine house, for her husband prospered and they had a few precious years together, filled with happiness, when tragedy came out of a sky without menace and struck her down: her only son, their high hope, was born dead. Her husband soon followed, carried off by an epidemic, and she was left completely bereft of human ties.

“‘She lived on in our town and clung to our faith. She came to all our meetings, but was never moved by the Spirit to rise and speak; but drifted in and out of our lives remote and alone. She was still radiant to look upon, but she was a puzzle and a heartache to us. The Quakers are a wise people, with knowledge of human suffering, but she baffled us; we could not understand how so strong a character could break, and it was some time before we realized that she was not altogether with us. We were moved by the sight of her, for it was like looking at an exquisite crystal goblet with a crack in it.

“‘Then a very strange and beautiful thing happened. It was at a Quarterly Meeting when many Friends came from far and near with important elders and visiting overseers. Our Meeting House was filled to overflowing and we had a particularly long silence that morning, deep and centered down, when to the surprise of us all, the poor lovely thing rose in our midst and removed her bonnet. A pin caught in the ribbon, freeing her hair, spilling gold over her shoulder, and we saw that she was even more beautiful than we had thought. She turned, and smiled on us one by one; then lifting up her voice she began to sing.

“’There was no consternation. No one moved. We sat in deep meditation while she filled the Meeting House with celestial music. She sang and she sang, a glorious Latin hymn of praise which lifted us plain, humble Quakers to the very gates of Heaven itself. After the meeting she was gently brought before the overseers and asked why she had thus disobeyed the Friends’ advice against music in any form, and she replied like an honest child: “I had a concern.”

“’The elders withdrew to wrestle with the problem and they pondered for many hours. Finally, to their everlasting credit, they brought in their verdict: —

“’WHEREAS, It being the decision of this Quarterly Meeting of the Religious Society of Friends, and whereas she was moved by a concern beyond human jurisdiction; therefore, be it Resolved, That she be allowed whenever and wherever the Spirit doth move her, to lift up her voice and sing to the everlasting glory of God,“

The good Catholic bell in the tower of the Unitarian Church began booming the noon hour. We both slowly rose and left the Captains’ Room in silence.